


On the Threshold

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, None - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Series: Jacobs Ladder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:16:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Det. B. Jacob Sandburg solves his first case as Point Man; he confronts and lays to rest a misgiving about his new profession.<br/>This story is a sequel to Up the Twisted Staircase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Threshold

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: For those familiar with my previous stories The Natural, But There Will be Joy in the Morning, Up the Twisted Staircase and The Sandburg Express, I have designated these stories as the series Jacob's Ladder; this story takes place after Staircase but before Express, as will all subsequent Ladder stories; at present there are no post-Express stories planned--but one never knows. 
> 
> It is not necessary to have read any other stories in the series, so long as you remember that 
> 
> Blair accepted Simon's offer and is now officially on the Force;   
> he now goes by his middle name--rather than Blair J. Sandburg he is now B. Jacob Sandburg.   
> The legal proceedings described here are based on conversations with paralegals and lawyers; as each State's proceedings are slightly different, they may or may not be congruent with the State of Washington's. I apologize for any errors. 
> 
> Those who have read But There Will be Joy in the Morning will recall my mention of the social worker Martin Hardcastle and his brother, a detective in Homicide. The Hardcastle brothers are in some snippets I plan to use in a later story, but always as good guys. For some reason Mike ( the detective) kept acting like a jerk in this story--I was surprised to find out why. 
> 
> Thanks to all my betas. They will notice that a scene involving Chancellor Edwards has been deleted; it was great fun to write, but it was highly improbable and didn't really advance the story much. Rest assured, the old she-dragon will get her comeuppance soon! 
> 
> The State of North Dakota does offer a correspondence program for grades 5-12; originally designed for North Dakota children on remote farms, ranches, Indian reservations, etc., it is not limited to North Dakota residents. For further information, see www.dis.dpi.state.nd.us. 
> 
> For information on the cane as a self-defense weapon, please see www.canemasters.com. 

## On the Threshold

by BAW

Author's disclaimer: This is a piece of 'fanfic' based on the television show The Sentinel. All elements of the story peculiar to this secondary universe remain the property of PetFly, UPN, et al; all elements unique to this story remain the property of the author. As this story is intended for amusement only, and as an exercise in composition, with no thought or expectation of material gain, counsel's opinion informs me that the usage of The Sentinel secondary universe falls within fair use.

* * *

Detective B. Jacob Sandburg sat uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench of the Witness Room in the Cascade County Courthouse. This would be the first time he was to testify in a case. He had worked on others, and evidence he had uncovered had put away several defendants. However, in all those cases he had been a very junior member of the team; this was his first case as 'Point Man', and he was nervous. True, this wasn't the full trial, merely a pre-trial hearing. The District Attorney had filed an in limine motion to prevent an anticipated line of questioning by the Defense, and the Judge--rather than moving on the pleadings--had called for a hearing.  
Detective Sandburg knew that he was as ready as humanly possible. He had gone over with the Assistant District Attorney in charge what the questions would be and how he would answer them. Another A.D.A. had taken the part of the Defense attorney and had tried to shake him, to no avail. This would not the first time he had been cross-examined. He remembered defending his M.A. thesis, and the proposal for his doctoral dissertation. 

Oh, bad thought. He had never had the chance to defend the full dissertation itself, and he was uncomfortably reminded of why. No need to do that--the Defense would be more than happy to do it for him before too long. Best not to think of that.  
Detective Sandburg cast his mind back to the beginning of the case. 

* * *

"Major Crimes, Detective Sandburg speaking." "Detective Sandburg? Is Detective Ellison there? This is Officer Andressen." "Oh, hello Lars. And please, call me Jacob. Jim's not in today--won't be all this week. How's your Great-Grandma Rollvaag?" "Oh, she's fine. Asks about you and Detective Ellison quite often. But, Jacob, I didn't call just to chat. I need some help." "Of course, Lars. What's the problem? Jim's not available, but perhaps I'll do." "Well, you know I'm on bicycle patrol." "Yes, how're you liking it?"  
"Oh, very much. You get to know the people in your neighborhood--who they are, what their problems are, what they're like. You get to really make a difference."  
"Well, I can see that. And you get to work off all those doughnuts." Andressen snorted, "Yeah. Well, the reason I called is that something's happened."  
"Oh, what?"  
"One of the residents in my neighborhood was found with his head bashed in." "Oh! Isn't Homicide taking care of it?" "Yes, they sent someone over. Detective Hardcastle--y'know him?" "Yes, I do. A good man."  
"I'm sure he is. But, Jacob, he's treating it like a robbery gone sour, and I don't think it is; or at least, I don't think that's all it is. But because I'm so new he won't listen to me." "Lars, I've not been on the force any longer than you have." "Not officially, no. But you had those years as an observer-consultant. Detective Hardcastle knows you--he doesn't know me." "Well, I'll see what I can do. Why don't you think his analysis is correct?" "Several little things, but really it comes down to 'By the pricking of my thumbs/ something wicked this way comes.'" "'Open locks, whoever knocks,'" replied Jacob, completing the quote, "Are you at the scene?"  
"Yes."  
"I'll talk to some people here and see if I can come over. I don't want to step on Hardcastle's toes---I'm still very much a neophyte." "Thanks, Jacob."  
"Don't mention it."  
Jacob looked around. He was at the station by himself today; a few days before Jim had badly sprained his ankle falling down some stairs while chasing a suspect through an old factory. They had caught the suspect and he was now in jail. The doctor had told Jim that it was a minor miracle that the ankle was only badly sprained, not broken, and had adjured him strongly to stay off it for at least a week, and the painkillers he prescribed were strong enough to enforce it. Jacob had left Jim ensconced groggilyand grumpilyon the sofa in the loft's living room and had come into the station by himself.  
Similarly unpartnered was Detective Rafe. His partner had eaten some Mexican food that wasn't quite what it ought to have been, and was at home with a bad case of the Tijuana Express. Jacob conferred briefly with Rafe, and the two of them went into Simon's office. After they explained the matter, Simon reluctantly consented to their going over to the scene, cautioning them that is was still Hardcastle's case and they weren't to try to take over. 

* * *

As Rafe's BMW steered through the midday traffic, they passed the Rainier University campus. Rafe noticed Jacob looking wistfully at Hargrove Hall. "Regrets?" asked Rafe  
"Not really. A little. But I am happy, Rafe." "Then why the long look?"  
"I spent almost half my life at Rainier, Rafe--half my life; I earned my B.A., my M.A., my M.Phil. and was that close to a Ph.D.; I was a teacher there for more than four years--there were freshmen I saw through to graduation. Of course I miss it, and I do regret the circumstances of my leaving. I loved teaching, and I was good at it; but I'm doing important work now, and I think I'm becoming a good detective. Perhaps someday I'll be as good a detective as I was a teacher." "You're well on the way, Jacob; and I'm glad you're okay with it. You seemed to love anthropology; I'm sorry you had to give it up." "Rafe, please," sighed Jacob, "I had this conversation with Jim already. Just because I'm no longer an academic doesn't mean I'm not still an anthropologist. Look, anthropology, to put it in the simplest terms, it is the study of how people get along with each other, and what happens when they fail to get along. That's directly applicable to what we do, isn't it?"  
"Well, yes. I guess I never thought about it that way. I took a bit of sociology in college. What's the difference between sociology and anthropology?" "Not a whole lot, any more. Traditionally anthropology dealt with 'primitive' cultures, while sociology dealt with 'advanced' ones, but the distinction has been breaking down over the past half-century; perhaps a generation or so down the line they'll have merged. You need to turn left at the next light." It wasn't hard to tell which house was their destination. There was a small phalanx of black-and-whites drawn up in front of the mansion that stood well back from the street. Rafe let out a low whistle as he looked at the elaborately landscaped and meticulously manicured gardens.  
"There's money involved here," he said. "Certainly," agreed Sandburg, "And Rafe, before we go in--I'm happy, really I am. Thanks for caring."  
They walked up to the door and were greeted by both Officer Andressen and Detective Hardcastle.  
"You're welcome to look around," said the latter, "although why Andressen called you in is beyond me. Come, let me show you the scene of the crime." He led them to the back of the house to a large room outfitted as a library. The oblong room was two stories tall, with a narrow balcony running around where the ceiling of the first story would normally be. They entered at one of the short ends. Halfway down the long end there was, on one side, a fireplace; directly opposite the fireplace was a set of French doors leading to a terrace overlooking the back garden. There was a winding staircase at each corner leading to the balcony, and at each end of the room on that level was a set of double doors, presumably leading to the second story of the house. At the far end of the room was a desk at which a figure lay slumped.  
"The housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds," said Hardcastle, "had the morning off. She came in, took off her coat, and was told by the cook that lunch was ready. She went to tell Mr. Powys, and found him like this." "Mr. Powys?"  
"Mr. Rhys Emlyn Powys--the owner of the house. That's him--or was." "Any signs of forced entry?"  
"No, but Mrs. Reynolds says that the doors were never kept locked during the day. Anyone could have walked in. The cook and her helper were in the kitchen, and the other servants were either out or upstairs. This is a big enough house that they might well not have heard anything, especially with the inside doors closed."  
"Anything missing?"  
"Mrs. Reynolds says that there were some artifacts in that case there; they're certainly none now. Also, Mr. Powys was working on a book and his notes all seem to be gone, as well as his laptop computer." "What was the book about?"  
"From what she tells me, something to do with his travels in South America." It was at that time that the Coroner and Forensics arrived. While they were going about their tasks, Sandburg began examining the shelves. He saw an anthropological text that looked interesting and tried to pull it out, but it was too firmly wedged between a Bible and a book of George Bernard Shaw's plays. 

When the Coroner was ready to move the body, the three officers got a good look at it. The late Mr. Powys had been elderly, well into his seventies by the look of him, and had gray curly hair, which fell well below his shoulders. He wore a full beard, which came up his cheeks to practically below his eyes. His eyebrows were full and bushy and his beard went so far down his neck that it merged with his chest hair. He was not a big man--five eight or so--but he was broad chested, and had probably been quite athletic in his younger days. His mouth was open to reveal that he had few natural teeth left. His skull had been bashed from behind, as though someone had stepped quietly up behind him and struck him unawares. "Dan," said Sandburg, "about that death blow. I'm about the victim's size. Is Forensics done with the desk? Good. If I were to sit in his chair--I'm writing, or typing at my computer--and you were to come up behind and hit me to produce that sort of wound--how would you do it? Take my cane."  
"Well," said the M.E., "either like this--or like this." "So," put in Andressen, "so we're either looking for a left-handed murderer . . ."  
" . . .or," added Rafe, "someone with a strong backhand." "Did Powys offend the tennis pro at the country club?" asked Hardcastle sarcastically.  
"Now that's a good theory," Sandburg responded in kind, taking back his cane, "Do you want us to help interview the staff?" "I think I can do that, along with the uniforms." Sandburg, Andressen, and Rafe left the house. "O.K., Andressen," asked Rafe, "why do you disagree with Detective Hardcastle about the robbery-gone-wrong theory?"  
"Well, sir," the young Scandinavian replied, "It looks as though the old man was taken quite by surprise, as though whoever did it was someone he knew and trusted--not some intruder. It looked as though he was sitting there, minding his business, when someone came behind him and--WHAP! There's no sign that he turned around, or got up, or tried to get away. . .or anything. And there's something odd about that house." "What?"  
"That's just it. I don't know."  
The young man's handsome features were screwed in frustration as he tried to call up the problem point.  
"Rafe," said Sandburg, "do you remember Mrs. Rollvaag?" "The old lady who gave your graduation party? Sure. The one with the pet panther and wolf."  
"That wasn't a panther, Rafe--just a very large cat; and the 'wolf' was a Siberian Husky. Well, Andressen is her great-grandson. He grew up in houses like this one. He knows what belongs--and what does not belong. If he says that something's 'off', it probably is; I would guess something small enough that he didn't notice it consciously. Lars, I want you to think about this a bit more. It may come to you. If it does, call Detective Hardcastle."  
"Jacob, I don't think he'd listen to me." "Lars," said Rafe, "you're going to have to learn to trust your instincts--and to stand up for them, even to more experienced officers. You wouldn't be the first rookie--especially one with an unusual background--to spot something a senior officer missed. Now, if you feel shy about talking to Detective Hardcastle, you can call Detective Sandburg or myself. Got it?"  
"Thank you, sir. I'll do that, sir."  
"Unless Detective Hardcastle wants you, you should go about your regular patrol now. Call if you come up with something!" "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."  
He pedaled off.  
"That makes me feel so old," sighed Rafe. "What?" asked Jacob.  
"Being called 'sir'."  
"I remember when I started teaching I found it hard to get used to being called 'Mr. Sandburg'."  
"What do you think it was?"  
"What?"  
"That Andressen noticed."  
"Well, I know what I noticed. I don't believe that library." "Why not?"  
"Well, you know that I've spent most of my life in libraries of one sort or another. I know how scholars treat their books. That was not a scholar's library. First of all, even if they don't formally catalog or classify their books, real book people try to shelve their books by subject. That room had all sorts of books jumbled together. In the second place, people who really care about books don't pack them in the shelves like that; it makes taking the books out too difficult--there's a real danger of damaging them if you try." "I'd never have thought of that. See what I mean about unusual backgrounds?" "I believe," said Sandburg, in the tone of voice most people would use to discuss an exotic perversion, "that interior decorating firms sell book collections by the yard." "Put that in your report and copy it to Hardcastle; see what he makes of it." They got back into the car and headed back for the station. 

* * *

"Jacob," asked Rafe, "I've been wondering. Why do you carry a cane? You don't have a bum knee or anything."  
"Rafe, look at me. I'm the one of the shortest men on the force. Most of the women are bigger than I am. What are you, five-eleven, six foot? Next to some of the other guys you look petite. I need every advantage I can get. I've had instruction on using this. See how the crook is a little larger than a standard cane? I can use this to hook someone's neck or ankle, or I can wrap someone's arm around the shaft and use it for leverage to do a joint-lock. The horn is excellent for pressure-point work. I can thrust the tip into someone's belly or whip it up between a guy's legs. And, best of all, I can carry it absolutely anywhere without attracting any attention--unlike a tonfa or a pair of nunchaku. The cane is an excellent weapon. I can use it to subdue someone without really hurting him, or I can really mess someone up if I have to." "Ah, that makes sense. It's a beautiful piece, too--the way the prong is carved to look like a snarling wolf--and those blue crystals in the eyes. And those carvings down the shaft--they look familiar. Are they Native American?" "No, but they do look a little like some Haida designs, don't they?" replied Jacob, thinking, reflecting on how the designs had an esoteric significance that his friend would be unlikely to recognize. They returned to the station. By the time they finished their reports and the rest of the day's paperwork, it was time to go home. 

* * *

"And so, Jim, that's it. Nothing else was missing. None of the other rooms was disturbed. None of the servants saw or heard anything. Just the old man got bashed on the head, his notes and laptop stolen, and some artifacts missing from the case."  
"And Hardcastle thinks it was a botched robbery." "Yes. I disagree, and I think Rafe is inclined to agree with me. If an intruder had come in through the front door he would have had to walk through the whole house to get to the library. There were lots of valuable things there; I saw them. He couldn't have come in through the French windows. They were locked and bolted; the key was in the victim's pocket and the bolts work from the inside. Mrs. Reynolds had the only other key."  
"The back door?"  
"The cook and her helper were in the kitchen. He couldn't have gotten past them."  
"Well, Chief, it looks to me as though you're right. It doesn't sound like a simple robbery. You can explain away most of those things individually, but it adds up to a skewed picture. What's Hardcastle doing?" "Seeing if anyone tried to 'fence' the laptop and looking into the black market for the artifacts."  
"Try offering to help with that last. Point out to him your background in archaeology. I'll run a background check on Mr. Powys." At this point the phone rang. Jacob answered it. "Lars? Yes. Yes. Really?" Jacob frowned. "I don't get it. Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Good work. Yes, I'll pass the word on. Yes, I'll tell Jim you said hello," he said, waiving at Jim, "And yes, you can tell your great-grandma we'll come to visit soon," he said, smiling, "Yes, Lars, you did good. Yes, thanks. This will be helpful." "What was that about?"  
"Lars realized what was 'wrong.' Nearly every time he stopped by on his rounds, the old man brought him in for a glass of lemonade or something, especially on hot days."  
"So?"  
"Did your father ever do that? Give a glass of something to your local beat cop?"  
"No. If Sally wanted to give him a cold drink in the kitchen, that was OK, but I don't remember Dad ever doing anything like that himself." "Lars has been asking around. Deliverymen, UPS drivers, the mailman--Powys always greeted them himself, talked to them, offered them a drink or a snack if they seemed to need it. He did it himself--he didn't send a servant to do it." "So, the man was gracious and generous. Is that a crime?"  
"No, but it goes further than that. Direct sales people were welcomed. I didn't know we had Fuller Brush men any more. Avon and Mary Kay ladies, Amway distributors--you name it. He'd listen to the sales pitches; sometimes he'd even buy. Does that sound like a man fervently working on a book?" "Well, no. But he could simply be lonely--no family, no close friends--and crave contact with people."  
"Lars did a little more digging. The old man was a member of the Mountain Lakes Country Club--isn't that where your Dad and Stephen are members?" "Yes."  
"He almost never went there. Same for the Tower Club downtown. It seems that he went out of his way to avoid members of his own class, but to be seen by members of the more blue-collar groups." "So, he liked to go slumming. Again, not a crime." "But he didn't go slumming. He hardly left the house. And I saw that old man's teeth. Or lack thereof. He could barely have chewed oatmeal. Why would a man of his class not have better teeth? He should have been able to afford the best dentists. No, something odd was going on in that house."  
"It does sound odd."  
"Something else that occurred to me. Why all the hair? And the beard? Even the people who saw him couldn't have seen much beyond the tip of his nose. We both know how a new haircut can change a person's appearance. What does he look like under all that?" "That's an interesting thought, Chief." "Can we ask the M.E. to cut his hair and shave off his beard?" "I honestly don't know. The question has never come up that I know of. We could ask."  
"Let's look into it tomorrow. I think we need to run a background check on Mr. Powys. Nobody seems to know where he lived before moving to Cascade or how he made his money."  
"I don't know what's wrong with Hardcastle. He seems so fixated on the robbery theory that he's overlooking all these other aspects." "I think he doesn't want to admit that a couple of rookies like Lars and myself can see something he can't, but I don't see why he's being so rude about it. Jim, really, I like Hardcastle, or at least I used to; he's helped me a great deal. He was very helpful after. . .You Know What. . .and was supportive when I decided to take Simon's offer, but now--I don't want to alienate him, but I can't let this slide, can I?" "No, Chief, you can't. Keep feeding him your information and suggestions and do a low-keyed parallel investigation--if he doesn't follow up, or ignores you, then we'll be able to do something about it." "We?"  
"Yes, we; I'm your partner. And I've got enough seniority that people will listen to me when they won't give you the time of day." "Jim, I can't hide behind you forever. I'm a full member of the force now--not an observer-consultant tagging along behind you; there are a lot of people who still treat me that way. It's not that they're mean about it, mostly--it's just that they don't take me seriously. I'm still 'Ellison's Sidekick' to them." "Yes, Chief, I understand that, and if I have to bring this up to the higher-ups I will make it clear that this is your idea, not mine. I'll ask Rafe to join me; he's junior to me, but he's been around the block a few times, and he's not as closely tied to you as I am. The fact that he was with you at the crime scene will help, too."  
"Let's go out tomorrow and see what your senses can dig up. That is, if your ankle is up to it."  
"I can walk on it--just not very far or fast. As long as we don't have to chase a suspect, I'll be OK."  
"I can to the chasing. I'll call Lars and see if he can show up at the same time; he can be my backup. That is, if we can get him to stop kissing your feet. I swear, that kid has a bad case of hero-worship for you! Perhaps I should tell him some stories? How about. . .mmph?" Jim graphically demonstrated why they are called throw pillows. Jacob retaliated in kind. Jim threw the afghan over his head and swept his feet from under him. He then pinned him down with his superior weight and tickled him into submission. 

* * *

Detectives Hardcastle and Ellison were having it out in the conference room; despite the closed doors, the set-to re-echoed throughout the floor like an operatic tenor-baritone duet.  
"Where do you come off horning in on Homicide's territory!" Detective Hardcastle's voice shrieked like an angry eagle, "This is not a Major Crimes case."  
"Come off it, Hardcastle," responded the well-known Ellison growl, "We're not trying to take the case away from you. We're merely following up on some leads you don't seem to care about. We're not neglecting any of our own cases, and we aren't interfering with any of the inquiries you have out. I thought we were on the same side here!" "Ellison, I like Sandburg, I really do. When he got kicked out of the university, I got my brother in Social Services to offer him a caseworker job; I thought he'd make a great social worker. When he decided to join the Force, I defended that choice to anyone and everyone who questioned it. He was a good partner to you as an observer-consultant, and I'm sure he'll be a good one to you as a detective. But he can't go thinking that just because he got to skip paying his dues in uniform he can flout procedure whenever he wants to!" "He hasn't flouted procedure, Hardcastle. He's gone out of his way to follow it. Every idea and suggestion he's had he's given to you as officer in charge. He's urged Andressen to do the same."  
"I don't need a couple of wet-behind-the-ears rookies to tell me how to do my job!"   
"Both Andressen and Sandburg are right out of the Academy, granted. But both have advantages in this case that you lack, despite your experience. Andressen's family is on the Cascade Social Register, even if he's taken what most Register people would consider a dclass job; he knows how things are done in that kind of household, and he's noticed things that are not quite right. Once I heard about them I agreed. If you don't believe Andressen, believe me." "Yeah, you're Social Register too, aren't you?" "Leave my family out of this! Sandburg--his four years of civilian investigative experience aside, not to mention his academic training in observing and analyzing human behavior--knows about scholars and writers, and he noticed the old man acting out of character for one of them. Sandburg still has a lot to learn, but when he says he knows something, you'd damn well better listen to him!"  
In spite of the conference room doors being shut, the trumpeting and clash of tusks from the brawling bull-elephants could be heard quite distinctly in the Major Crimes bullpen. Sandburg looked at the others with alarm.  
"D'ya think we ought to do something before they hurt each other?" "Nah," said Rafe, "it won't come to that. Come on, Sandburg, you've heard Ellison in Full Rant mode before."  
"Yes, but I've never heard Hardcastle like that before. He always seemed so quiet and restrained. Cool, calm, collected, controlled, no matter the provocation--that's what I think when I hear 'Hardcastle.'" "You got that," said H., "but when that sort of icy calm goes, it GOES." "Aaaarrrragugh!" came a voice from the conference room. The door flew open with a great crash, and Hardcastle stomped into the bullpen, with Ellison hobbling behind him. He looked as though he was thinking about feeding his cane to Hardcastle.  
"SANDBURG!" roared Hardcastle, "You want the Powys case, you can have it. The file will be transferred to Major Crimes with the recommendation that you be given Point on this--and I hope to Jesus, Mary, and Holy Joseph that you're ready for it!"  
"Hardcastle!" came the patented Banks Bellow, escalating the tenor-baritone duet to trio with bass, "You are not to speak to my Detectives in that way. Only I can speak to my Detectives in that way!" "Whaddya mean, Banks," sneered Hardcastle, "can't your precious little protg take it?"  
"That's enough!" bellowed the Major Crimes Captain, going nose-to-nose with Hardcastle, "You may not be a member of my unit, but I'm still a Captain in this Force, and your superior officer! Leave this bullpen! I will inform your own Captain about your unprofessional behavior! SCRAM!" The Banks Bellow had cowed stronger men than Hardcastle, who promptly fled. "Ellison, Sandburg, in my office. NOW!" They complied.  
"Now, what was that all about?"  
Ellison and Sandburg explained the situation. "Well, I can see why he might have been a little annoyed," admitted the Captain, his voice mitigating itself from Bellow to Roar, "but there was no call for that kind of behavior. Well, I guess the case is yours now, since Hardcastle has washed his hands of it. Now, don't you have some work to do?" 

* * *

Ellison's senses did not turn up much useful, except for some small scratches on the French door to the back garden terrace. Sandburg and Andressen could make out the scratches with a magnifying glass, once they were pointed out. What the scratches meant was a bit of a puzzle, but after some calculation and experimentation, the three of them were able to figure out that a complicated array of knotted heavy threads could have shot the bolt from the outside and then been drawn out through the cracks. 

They reasoned that the assailant could have come in from either the front or the terrace, and had gone out by the terrace, locking and bolting it from the outside. This would mean that she or he had a key. The person could have been an outsider, or an insider pretending to be an outsider. Sandburg pointed out that, especially as the victim had been sitting down and taken by surprise, the blow would not be beyond a woman's strength--a fact which broadened the suspect pool considerably. They questioned the housekeeper, the cook, the cook's assistant, the butler-chauffeur, and the gardener. The butler-chauffeur and the cook were one married couple; the gardener and the cook's assistant were another. The housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, said she was a widow. The other staff lived out, none and been in on the day in question, and Mrs. Reynolds had given them their month's money. All would have to be interviewed, of course, but that could be done later. It seemed that only Mrs. Reynolds had come with the dead man; all others had been hired locally through an agency. Sandburg took down the name of the agency for further inquiries. 

* * *

"Well," said the disgusted Sandburg, "that was a great big pile of nothing. Nobody saw anything, or heard anything, or knew anything. How can such idiots get around and earn a living? And they can vote! It makes one fear for democracy."  
"'Democracy is a dreadful political system, but the others are much worse.' I think that was Winston Churchill," replied Ellison. Upon returning to Central Precinct, they were unsurprised to find the results of the background checks they had run on both the deceased and Mrs. Reynolds had come up negative. According to every database checked, Mrs. Reynolds was a modern day version of Dickens' Mrs. 'Arris--"There ain't no such person."-- and her late employer a masculine edition. With this news they proceeded to the morgue, not before putting out a request that Mrs. Reynolds be brought in for further questioning. The coroner had contacted one of the funeral homes, which in turn had called on the hairdresser who normally took care of their clients. She had come over to the morgue, where she cut the decedent's hair and shaved off his beard. It was true--the man looked totally different; and, for that matter, naggingly familiar. Both Sandburg and Ellison were sure they had seen that face, although neither could remember where. They requested a picture, which the medical examiner gladly provided. They then took the photograph over to Forensics, where they had it scanned and had the image placed on a floppy disk. Once back in the bullpen, they placed the disk in Sandburg's computer and called up one of their newer programs.  
The dead man's face appeared on the screen. Fifteen red points appeared on the face. A small window opened on the upper left-hand corner of the screen. Faces began to flash over it, faster than a normal eye could see. This went on for several minutes before the word "MATCH" flashed on the screen. The small window expanded and the main one contracted until the screen was divided in half, one picture on each side. They were obviously the pictures of the same person. "Robert Carlson," read Sandburg, "now who's he, when he's at home?" He clicked on the name, calling up the file.  
Robert Carlson and his wife Edith were, apparently, missing suspects in a major bank fraud case dating back about ten years. They had vanished, along with the money, almost as soon as the other conspirators had been arrested. Of the nine captured conspirators, charges had been dismissed against two for lack of evidence; prosecutors were sure that they were involved, but--while there was evidence of a connection between them and the others--there was no hard evidence that there had been a guilty connection. The seven others had been convicted and were serving time in prison. A quick check revealed that Edith Carlson, allowing for a quick peroxide job, was Mrs. Reynolds. The Carlsons had been 'hiding in plain sight.' Carlson had taken great pains to establish his identity as Powys, but minimized his contact with people who might, despite the hair and beard, recognize him as Carlson. Questioning the two freed suspects and looking into their backgrounds found that the niece of one of them suspects was the Mary Kay lady who had visited several times. She had been a little girl ten years ago, but was now a young woman; while Carlson had not recognized her, she had certainly recognized him. After consulting with her uncle, during one of her visits she had been able to obtain a wax impression of the key to the French doors. Later her uncle, dressed as a deliveryman, had walked in 'as bold as brass' through the front door. Apparently Carlson, intent on what he was doing, had never heard the footsteps on the thick carpeting. He had been struck down with a length of steel pipe. His assailant took the papers and the laptop containing the access data for the Cayman Islands accounts where the missing money was hidden and absconded, locking the terrace doors behind him by the method Ellison and Sandburg had deduced from the scratches. Mrs. Reynolds, hoping that the police would treat it as a robbery and not look too closely into the deceased's background, had removed the artifacts and concealed them in the basement. 

* * *

"Detective Sandburg?" asked the Bailiff, "They want you now." Sandburg was ushered into the hearing room where he was sworn in. "Detective Sandburg," said the Judge, "The purpose of this hearing is to rule on certain lines of questioning the Prosecutor has asked to be barred from the trial. They relate to your life before you joined the Force. "The Defense holds that there is, or may be, something in your background that would call into question your reliability as a witness. The Prosecution holds that the Cascade Police Department's screening procedures would have winnowed you out if you were, indeed untrustworthy. They concede that everyone has something in his past which, taken out of context and exaggerated, could make him look bad, but that to allow the Defense to do so would serve only to confuse the jury and distract them from the real evidence in the case. What we will do today is examine whatever in your past might be a hindrance to your credibility, to determine if it really is or not, and if it is something the jury should know about. Do you understand?"  
"Yes, Your Honor," replied Jacob, hoping that he did not sound as nervous as he felt.  
"Good. As it is a Prosecution motion, they will begin." "Detective Sandburg," asked the A.D.A., "what were you doing before you entered the Cascade Police Academy?"  
"I was a graduate student at Rainier University." "And what was your field of study?"  
"Anthropology, sir."  
"Could your describe your academic career at Rainier?" "Yes, sir. I entered the University shortly before my sixteenth birthday. I was home-schooled, long before it became fashionable, and passed the State of North Dakota's correspondence high school program at fourteen. Sixteen was the youngest age Rainier would take me." "What did you do in the meantime?"  
"I took some courses in a local community college. My Mother felt that I should experience a structured classroom situation before I went to the university." "Quite so. And what was your undergraduate course of study at Rainier?" "A Bachelor of Arts in Anthropology and History, with a minor in Psychology. I also took a many courses in Art, Comparative Literature, Classics, Religious Studies, and Foreign Languages. I had and have a strong interest in Archaeology, but at Rainier there isn't a separate 'Department of Archaeology'; archaeological courses are offered in History, Anthropology, Art History, Classics, and Religious Studies." "Religious Studies?"  
"Biblical Archaeology, sir."  
"I see. Which graduate program did you enter after your undergraduate studies?" "I pursued and ultimately earned an Master of Arts in Anthropology." "What was your thesis topic?"  
"Sentinels."  
"What are Sentinels?"  
"The term comes from the writings of Sir Richard Burton. No, not the twentieth-century alcoholic Welsh actor who married Elizabeth Taylor--twice. My Sir Richard was a nineteenth-century explorer. 'Sentinel' was the term he used to describe certain people who have enhanced senses. That is, they could see, hear, smell, taste, and feel far better than most--see farther, or in dimmer light; hear fainter sounds, or higher pitched ones--you get the idea. There are many accounts--historical, legendary, and mythical--of such people. Most accounts stress how they used their abilities to help their communities--patrol borders, scout for enemies, lead hunting and war parties, warn of impending natural disasters, things like that. Sir Richard claimed to have found such people among remote Indian tribes in South America, and to have studied them. Using his findings as a 'lens', I examined those other accounts I mentioned and drew certain general theories about Sentinels."  
"Did you continue your studies beyond the Master's level?" "Yes. I enrolled in the Doctor of Philosophy program in Anthropology." "And what was your Doctoral project?"  
"I could not find any reason why Sentinels should have died out; given that, I theorized that they might still exist. I thought I might be able to find people nowadays with a full spectrum of enhanced senses, and that perhaps I could help them to use their senses as the ancient Sentinels did."  
"Could you describe what you did to find such people?" "I took graduate courses in History and Psychology. This was, on the one hand, to gain a better understanding of their ancient role and possible modern applications, and on the other hand to be able to both study them and help them to use their special abilities--assuming that I found any. I went on some expeditions to various parts of the world where I thought I might find tribes which used Sentinels, and I put out calls for people in the United States and Canada with enhanced senses." "How much coursework in those two other subjects did you take?" "Enough that I could have, if I had cared to write two more theses, earned two more M.A. degrees."  
"Did you find any people with enhanced senses?" "I found many people with enhanced taste and smell; they are relatively common, and frequently work in the food, liquor, and cosmetic industries. I'm sure you've heard of 'noses' who help design perfumes, or of people who can take a sip of coffee or tea and tell you exactly where the beans or leaves were grown." "Just so. What about the other senses?" "Enhanced hearing is also not uncommon, although full enhanced hearing is rare. I found several people who could hear sounds of a higher or lower pitch than most could, or fainter sounds than most ears can detect. A variant of enhanced hearing is the musical phenomenon of Perfect Pitch. A person with all three hearing enhancements would be quite rare, but I did find a few. Enhanced sight is rare, but not unknown. Enhanced touch is very rare; I think I only found two or three people who had it." "Did you find anyone with multiple enhanced senses?" "Taste and smell are so closely related that everyone who had the one enhanced had the other, although usually not to the same degree. I did find a few with three or four enhanced senses. For example, there was a coffee-taster who also had Perfect Pitch--that's taste, smell, and partially enhanced hearing." "Did you ever find a full Sentinel--someone with all five senses enhanced?" "Well, there was a woman. . .but I couldn't use her."  
"Why not?"  
"As she was in the news a couple of years ago, it would not violate confidentiality to tell you about her; Alexandra Katherine Barnes was--I should say 'is', because so far as I know she's not dead--well, I could give you the exact psychiatric diagnosis, but in layman's language. . . she's a raving lunatic." "How did that make her an unsuitable subject?" "I'm convinced in my own mind that she has enhanced senses, but I can't prove where her enhanced senses leave off and her hallucinations and delusions begin." "Is there any other reason you stopped working with her?"  
"I called her a raving lunatic. I could expand that--she's a homicidal raving lunatic. She. . .she. . .she tried to kill me; correction, she did kill me." "Killed you?"  
"She abducted me at gunpoint from my campus office. There is a fountain just outside that building, and when we got to it she hit me over the head--not hard enough to knock me completely out, but hard enough to stun me--and then held my head under the water until the bubbles stopped coming. I was pronounced dead at the scene, and recall most clearly the whole Kbler-Ross experience, before I was brought back. I hope that nobody ever does that to you; it was not fun. I sort of lost interest in working with her after that."  
"I don't think anyone can blame you. What is your current attitude towards her?" "I hope the doctors at Conover can help her, but I would be just as happy to never see her again. If she were to walk into this room, I would leave by the nearest exit. If there weren't one handy, I might just make one." "In your place I would probably do the same. Your Honor, I present copies of Detective Sandburg's academic transcripts from Rainier and copies of the newspaper accounts of his near-drowning." The Judge and the Defense Counsel examined the documents. "Detective Sandburg, this shows that after your Master of Arts you took a Master of Philosophy degree. You didn't mention it. Could you explain?" asked the Judge.  
"Some universities, Your Honor, Rainier among them, award that degree when a Ph.D. student completes his or her coursework and the preliminary studies for his dissertation. The degree is granted when his or her dissertation topic is approved and he passes his comprehensive orals." "What is the purpose of the intermediate degree?" "It is not unusual for an 'all but dissertation' person to take a teaching or research position away from the University where he or she is a candidate. Sometimes this position's responsibilities are such that the dissertation never gets itself written. The M.Phil. is sort of a consolation prize, then. It sounds a lot better to say, 'I earned a M.Phil.' than to say, 'I worked on my Ph.D. but never finished the dissertation.'" "Thank you, Detective, for the clarification. Mr. Prosecutor, have you any further questions?"  
"Yes, Your Honor. Detective Sandburg, why did you start your association with the Cascade Police Department?"  
"Well, the ancient role of the Sentinels corresponds most closely to police work in modern society. I wanted to view firsthand what was involved in that sort of work, and how enhanced senses might be used in that context. Later, after the only live Sentinel I found was too unstable for me to use, I began to think about changing my dissertation topic to Applied Anthropology in Law Enforcement or the Anthropology of Crime & Delinquency." "Forensic Anthropology is a recognized specialty, isn't it?" "Yes, but that's a subdivision of Physical Anthropology; my background is in Social & Cultural Anthropology. Most lay people don't realize that there is a big difference. In exploring forensic applications of Social & Cultural Anthropology, I'd've been a bit of a pioneer." "What is the difference between the two?" "Physical Anthropology is really a subdivision of Zoology dealing with our species; Social & Cultural Anthropology is a behavioral science, closely related to Psychology and Sociology, and more distantly to History, Political Science, and Economics. It deals with the formal and informal groups that people form, how individuals relate to the groups, how the groups relate to one another and to society as a whole, how individuals who are members of more than one group balance their different roles and responsibilities---in short, how people get along with each other, or fail to get along. As a Social & Cultural Anthropologist I observe the behavior and interactions of live people; a Physical Anthropologist observes the remains and relics of dead ones." "Those sound rather different to be considered branches of the same subject." "They've been diverging steadily through most of the Twentieth Century. At the undergraduate level, one still has to study both; in graduate school, one specializes in one or the other. Perhaps in a generation or so they'll become totally separate fields, the way Political Economy broke up into Economics and Political Science."  
"During your time as a consultant-observer, did you work with one officer more than another?"  
"I worked mostly with Detective James Joseph Ellison." "Why?"  
"Detective Ellison was unpartnered when I started with the Department, and it was convenient for me to ride with him; it turned out that we worked well together, and Captain Banks decided to leave us together. I did work with other detectives on occasion, when their cases needed my special skills." "You and Detective Ellison became friends, as well?" "When two people work together as closely as we did, they usually end up either close friends or bitter enemies. I am pleased to say that the former happened between us. When I was left homeless because of an explosion and fire, he let me stay in his spare room. It was supposed to be for just a week, but I never did move out." "So, you're close?"  
"Yes, sir; I'm an only child," he said with a smile, "but if I could have ordered a big brother from the Sears-Roebuck Catalog, I couldn't have gotten a better one than Jim Ellison. He's saved my life more than once, and I've done the same for him."  
"Did you not write a dissertation describing him as a Sentinel?" "Not exactly."  
"Could you clarify that, please?"  
"Gladly. I wrote an account of a modern day Sentinel fulfilling his traditional role of 'tribal protector' in police work. I used some of Jim'serDetective Ellison's, cases. I structured it like a dissertation, sort of as a trial run." "Had you planned to submit it to the Rainier University?" "Sir, I field was Anthropology, not Creative Writing." "May we take that as a 'no'?"  
"You may."  
"Why, then, did you write it?"  
"I had put so much time and effort into the Sentinel studies that I wanted to do something with it; I had ideas of someday getting a novel or series of novels out of itchanging the names and other details to protect peoples anonymity, of course. I was working up a proposal for another dissertation, on the Anthropology of Crime & Delinquency, but I never was able to even submit the proposal, let alone write and present the dissertation. Events got out of my control."  
"Could you describe to the Court what happened?" "Somebody, behind my back, sent the Sentinel document to a publisher, who got the idea somehow that it was a piece of nonfiction. Even though I asked--no, begged--him not to, he released it to the press. Jim--er--Detective Ellison could not, as a result of the publicity, do his job. He and several other detectives were wounded. Two of them almost died. I tried to get the publishers and press to back off, but they wouldn't. The whole thing started to take on a life of its own. I was desperate and felt I had to do something to stop it." "What did you do?" "I called a press conference and. . .and. . . I de-de-denounced the document as a f-f-fraud."  
"What happened then?"  
"The press backed down and my friends on the Force were able to get back to their lives and jobs."  
"What happened to you?"  
"I was. . .was expelled from the University." "Do you consider that fair?"  
"No, sir, I do not, "replied Jacob, anger driving away his slight stammer. "Why not?"  
"I had never submitted the document as my dissertation," he spat out, outrage making his diction precise, "nor did I ever claim that it was a factual account. Others made that claim for me, but I do not think that I should be held accountable for other people's actions. I have always believed that each individual is accountable for his or her own actions--nobody else's." "Detective Sandburg, I show you a letter and ask if you can identify it." "Yes, I can; it is from the Steward of the Rainier University Local of the American Federation of Teachers." "What does the A.F.T. have to do with the matter?" "The American Association of University Professors represents the regular faculty. The American Federation of Teachers represents graduate students who teach as a part of their financial aid package." "Please describe the contents of the letter." "Certainly. It explains that I had grounds for filing a grievance against the University."  
"What, according to the letter were the grounds?" "There were two. First, as I had never officially submitted the document to the University, I could not have been said to have committed academic fraud. Second, even if I had committed fraud, the University violated my right to due process when they summarily expelled me. He also says that if I wanted to sue the University the Union's counsel would back me."  
"Did you initiate a union grievance against the University?" "No, sir."  
"Did you file suit against the University?" "No, sir."  
"Did you consider doing either of these things?" "Yes, sir."  
"Yet you decided not to?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"Why not?"  
"Two reasons, sir. First, I entered the University at fifteen-and-a-half; I had nearly turned thirty when things blew up on me. That, sir, is approximately half my life. Am I bitter about how the University threw me out like yesterday's garbage? Yes, a little; even a saint would be hard pressed not to feel bitter, and I, sir, never pretended to be a saint. Do I miss teaching? Yes, a lot; I was a good teacher. I take that back; I was an excellent teacher. But I have good memories, and three degrees. Rainier is my alma mater--which means literally foster mother. I couldn't drag her through the mud like that. No matter how shabbily she treated me, no matter how angry at her I was, I just couldn't do it. I couldn't." Jacob's voice rose over the last couple of statements, and he began to gasp as though he were about to hyperventilate. "Detective Sandburg, are you all right?" asked the Judge. "I will be in a moment, Your Honor. This is bringing up some unpleasant memories. If I could have a moment, please." "Would you like a glass of water?"  
"Please."  
The Bailiff brought the glass and Sandburg took a few sips. "I understand that this is a very emotional subject for you, Detective," said the A.D.A., "but if you could tell us your second reason?" "Yes, sir. You see, over the past few years of working with the police, I found that I had a natural talent for investigative work; I liked it and was good at it. I suppose that all my anthropological and psychological training and experience in observing and analyzing human behavior translated. After my teaching career imploded, Captain Banks was good enough to get me into the Academy, and I decided to start doing officially what I had been doing unofficially for a few years anyway. The only real differences are that I now carry a gun and a badge and have power of arrest. Even that's not so different. "  
"Please elucidate."  
"Well, sir, I had more than once used my observer-consultant's pass to persuade people to talk to me who would rather not, and that's not too different from my badge. As an observer-consultant I never carried a gun, but there were times when, to defend myself or others, I picked up a downed officer's weapon, or an officer passed me his backup weapon; even more often I used my fists and feet, not to mention improvised weapons. As for power of arrest, although the matter never came up, I'm sure if I had ever needed to call Citizen's Arrest on someone my status as an accredited observer-consultant would have given my C.A. a bit more weight than an ordinary person's would have.   
"In any case, I have no intention of going back into teaching or academic research in the foreseeable future; accordingly, I don't really need a doctorate. Taking proceedings against the university--either a union grievance or a civil suit--would only have taken energy and time better used to establish myself in my new profession." "Thank you, Detective. I know that was hard. I appreciate your coperation. Would it be a fair summation of the situation to say that you never claimed that your Sentinel document was factual; that you never submitted it to the University; that you had no intention to do so; and that you said so even at the time to anyone who would listen?" "That is a very accurate summation."  
"Why did you use such a strong word as 'fraud'? Why not 'fiction'?'" "I tried to stop the release of the document; I tried to get the press to back off; nobody was listening. The men and women of Major Crimes were my friends--I'd worked with them for nearly four years, they'd saved my life more than once--and they were being hurt. It was a minor miracle that none was killed. I felt that, in order to force the press to listen, I had to make a dramatic gesture--and felt that I had to do something quickly before something worse happened to my friends. Looking back, I wish I could have found some other way to fix the situation, but at the time I couldn't think of anything else. I had to protect my friends so that they could get on with their job of protecting the rest of us." Jacob pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. "I seem to have stirred up some powerful memories, Detective. Again, I'm sorry to have upset you, but we're almost done. Take a deep breath. Shall we go on? Do you need some more water?" "No, thank you. I'll be all right. Let's just get on with this, please," said Jacob in a small voice.  
"Very well. Why did you change your name?" "I haven't. My birth certificate reads 'Blair Jacob Sandburg.' Many people go by their middle names."  
"Yes, but you didn't before you joined the Force." "In many cultures people take on new names when they go through significant life-changes. In the Bible Abram and Sarai become Abraham and Sarah after they enter into the Covenant. In the Christian Testament, Simon the fisherman becomes Peter after he accepts his commission as Jesus' Chief Apostle." "So you did change your name."  
"Not really; I use my name in a different form. That's not unusual. Many people change the style of their names as they get older. My partner, for example, was called 'Jimmy' when he was young, but it would take a brave person to call the grown-up James Ellison 'Jimmy.' Certainly braver than I am. He's Jim or James now." "Thank you, Detective. Your Honor, I have no further questions." "Does the defense have any questions?"  
"We most certainly do, Your Honor."  
The Defense attorney tried to pick apart his testimony, harping on the word "fraud." Sandburg kept reiterating that he had never been found guilty of either civil or criminal fraud, that he himself had never made any claims to the factuality of the manuscript's content, and that what other people may have claimed was hardly his responsibility. He answered all the questions in a deceptively meek tone. Then, seemingly out of the blue, his face became like a stone mask and something ancient and dangerous looked out of those blue eyes, which now seemed less like harebells and more like sapphires.  
"You have asked me the same questions at least six different ways," he snarled, "I've answered you each time. It reminds me of when I had football players in my class."  
Sandburg, in researching the opposition, had discovered that the attorney in question had attended the University of Washington on a football scholarship. This remark was calculated to annoy, and had the desired effect. The man recoiled as one faced with an attack-trained Chihuahua. "Will the Court please instruct the witness to keep a civil tongue in his head?" snarled the Defense Counsel, turning beet red. "The witness has a point, Counselor," said the Judge, trying not to laugh, "I think he's shown remarkable patience; were I in his place, I don't think I would keep my temper quite so well. Do you have anything new to ask? If not, please stop wasting the Court's time." "The Defense has nothing further in this matter, Your Honor." "Very well. I am prepared to make my ruling. Detective Sandburg was never guilty of fraud. He never claimed that the document in question was a factual account; that claim was made by others, and--as he pointed out--he cannot be justly held accountable for what others might do or say. "The Bible says: 'Greater love hath no man than this--that a man lay down his life for his friends.' Mr. Sandburg gave up his former career, a career he loved and was good at, for his friends. Not as much as laying down one's life, but still a significant sacrifice. I hope that I have at least one friend who would do as much for me, if necessary; I pray that if one my friends needs me make a similar sacrifice that I will have the courage to do it.  
"Detective Sandburg brings a highly unusual, if not downright unique, skill set to law enforcement. I am entering a Provisional Order with the Clerk of Court that he be enrolled as an Accredited Expert Witness in the fields of Psychology, History, Archaeology and Social & Cultural Anthropology. This Order will stand until the next Administrative Session of the General Court of Justice in and for Cascade County, at which time the full Bench will vote on making it Permanent. "The Prosecution's motion in limine to exclude testimony concerning the circumstances of and reasons for Mr. Sandburg's career change from teaching to law enforcement. This hearing is adjourned." 

* * *

As soon as Detective Sandburg came out of the hearing, one of the Bailiffs gave him a note. It asked him to get over to Cascade General as quickly as he could. Naturally, his first thought was "JIM!!!!" He pushed the Volvo faster than he thought it could go to get over there. To his great relief, he found both Jim and Simon, as well as Captain Bolton of Homicide, waiting for him. Along with them was his brother Martin Hardcastle, the social worker.  
"What happened?" he gasped, "Jim, are you OK?" "For once, Chief, it isn't me. Its Hardcastle." "What happened?"  
"Mike," answered Captain Bolton, "was in my office. I was chewing him out for the way he acted up in Major Crimes when his eyes rolled back in his head and he hit the floor. I called the paramedics and they rushed him to the hospital. It turned out he had a brain tumor. Benign, fortunately, but it was pressing on his brain, which accounted for the headaches, mood swings, irritability, etc. Working with him the past few weeks has reminded me of when my mother was going through The Change. He's in surgery right now. Before he went in he wrote a note for you. Here it is." 

Dear Jacob ~~  
I've behaved very badly towards you and towards Officer Andressen. Towards everybody, really. I didn't know what was the matter with me; it was as though some evil force took over my body and my mouth was spewing such ugly words, words I didn't really mean. I just found out why, and I wish I had gone to the doctor before. I hope that you can forgive me. The doctor says that I might not survive the surgery. If I don't, I want to be sure that you know how much I admire and respect you, and that I am not the only officer who feels that way. If Ellison ever gets tired of you, or you of him, you'll have no problem finding another partner. Your--I hope--friend,  
Michael Hardcastle. 

"Sandburg," said Simon, "what's wrong?" Sandburg wordlessly handed him the paper; he wasn't exactly crying, but his blue eyes had a suspicious gleam to them. "He left a similar note for me, one for Captain Bolton, and one for Jim," said Simon, "There's another one for Andressen; I presume it says much the same thing. I'm glad. I was sure that the Mike Hardcastle I knew was under there somewhere."  
"I feel guilty," confessed Bolton, "I should have insisted he see the doctor. I knew he wasn't acting right, but he had some tough cases--we all did--and I just put it down to that." "Captain Bolton, sir," said Jacob, using what Jim had come to recognize as the 'Guide Voice', "you mustn't feel that way. You're not a doctor, you couldn't have known. Come, sit down. I liked Mike, but I didn't know him too well. Tell me about him."  
"Don't talk about him in the past tense. He's not dead yet." "No, of course not." Jacob replied soothingly, "But, please, tell me about him anyway."  
Captain Bolton proceeded to do just that; Simon and Jim provided some stories of their own, and Martin told a few stories from their childhood. Soon all five of them were laughing.   
A small, round Asian woman in scrubs appeared at Martin's elbow. "You must be Detective Hardcastle's brother; nobody else could look so much like him. I'm Dr. Chou."  
"Yes, I'm Martin Hardcastle, Doctor, and these men are some of Mike's fellow-officers; you may speak freely in front of them. What's the news?" "Good and bad. We got all of the tumor and relieved the pressure. However, your brother isn't out of the woods yet. He had a mild stroke on the table. Between that and the residual damage from the tumor, he'll have to go through considerable rehabilitation, but eventually he'll be back to normal, or very nearly."  
"Will he be able to go back to work?" asked Bolton, "That sounds a little insensitive, but he's one of my best men, and he does love his job. If he can't work, he'll be miserable."  
"I understand. He may, with a lot of work, make a full recovery. Only time will tell." 

* * *

"Well, Chief, you've solved your first case as Point Man and laid to rest one of your fears about your new career. You now have an official judicial finding that you are not a fraud; it's a matter of public record, and nobody will be able to question your integrity again. What are you going to do now?"  
"I'm going to Disney World! No, really--back to the loft for dinner. Your night to cook, remember?"  
"There's a roast leg of lamb waiting for us. We'll stop on the way home for a bottle of wine--a nice Zinfandel or a Cabernet. Green peas with pearl onions and roast new potatoes as sides, and a Caesar salad. I called Mrs. Ramirez at the pastelera; she's saving one of her triple chocolate cakes for us. And there's a Jags game on the tube tonight. Simon gave us the day off tomorrow. Sound good?" "Great!" Jim threw his arm around Jacob's shoulders, and they walked out towards the parking lot--together as Sentinel and Guide should be. 

The End 

More stories of Jacob's Ladder to come. 


End file.
